


meet me and watch us die

by LocalVodkaAunt



Category: One Piece
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Graphic Description of Injury, I don't know why this happened and I'm sorry, Illegal Fight Clubs, M/M, Medical Procedures, Modern AU, OOC, hospital au, law is an edgelord, things got a bit dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 19:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15589431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LocalVodkaAunt/pseuds/LocalVodkaAunt
Summary: Law works the weekend shifts at the hopital. This guy Roronoa is always there.Written for the prompt: "You are the on-call doctor on saturday nights and I'm purposely injuring myself so I can attempt to chat you up while you give me stitches. But I swear to god, the first four times were accidents, I just got too attached."[Please mind the tags.]





	meet me and watch us die

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, I wanted to write some fluff to get into a better mood and failed after, like, three words. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

The first time is innocent enough.

Law has been in the hospital for thirteen hours straight. His head hurts from the neon lights. The smell of people and disinfectant make him nauseous. The faces of his patient’s seem to blur more with every passing minute, the routine of the weekend overwhelming him. Three more hours. He wishes he could sit longer than for a few minutes. And for some coffee. But there isn’t any time, the stream of injured people is never stopping. Every time he finishes treatment and turns around, the partitions hold another person, another emergency.

Law hates Saturdays with a vengeance.

Sometimes he contemplates to ditch the city, move to a more rural area, settle down and take weekends and evenings off.

But then he takes the three steps to the next compartment, sees another injury and gets to work.

The thing is, that Law is always on on weekends. At first, it was just a replacement service for Kidd, who has been fired after threatening to cut a patient open with a blunt scalpel if he complained one more time. But with the shortage of doctors it soon became a regular thing. Get to work on Friday evenings, take a nap in a medicine cabinet, work all through Saturday and break down as soon as he slams his apartment door shut on Sunday. Rinse and repeat the next week.

Law loves his job, hates hospitals and desperately wishes for people to stop being so god damn dumb.

Deciding that he needs a toilet break he breaks away from the steady flow of injured people. He slips into the bathroom before a nurse can stop him and pauses in front of the wash basins to sprinkle some water on his face. The cold is a stark contrast to the heat of his cheeks and startles him awake a bit. Exhausted he leans head against the mirror and counts to thirty as slowly as humanly possible, not wanting to exit the quiet bathroom.

He trained to be a surgeon because he liked it when the people he treated couldn’t respond. There was something serene about the ritualized procedures of operations, the slow beeping of monitors and the quiet concentration he and the nurses held when working on a complicated case. He is by no means made for the emergency room.

Sighing, he turns away from the mirrors and exits the door. As soon as he reenters the treatment room, a nurse comes up to him and informs him there is a new patient waiting in compartment three.

Taking one deep breath, Law steadies himself and steps over to said partition. Two hours, fifty minutes and forty-six seconds of his shift left.

He opens the curtain and the first thing he sees is a mob of bright green hair. The second thing he sees is a big red stain on a white shirt. His patient sits cross legged on the cot, eyes closed, but clearly conscious. His breath comes in loud and measured and his posture is relaxed. Still, Law can see the blood drain out from his chest, extending the patch of red until that almost covers up his whole upper body.

Law doesn’t know why he sits there waiting instead of having been treated immediately. He steps up to the man and clearing his throat. “You need to remove your shirt so I can inspect your injury”, he said without further ado to not lose another precious seconds.

The other man lazily opens his eyes. “I could have been unconscious”, he answers, but pulls up his shirt, then winces when he accidentally moves his chest, too. He does not stop however, carries his movement through the pain until Law can see a long cut that seems to run parallel to an older and longer operation scar. It has clean edges and the bleeding has already halted a bit, but there is still blood leaking from the wound.

“How long have you been waiting?”, he asks instead of gratifying the teasing remark with an answer.

“Dunno”, the other replies. “Maybe an hour.”

The hospital is going to shit, alright. No one should have been left waiting that long with an injury like that. He could have lost substantially more blood in the meantime. “I’m sorry, there has been an emergency”, Law lies through his teeth, following the hospital’s policy to never admit a mistake but hating every syllable.

“It isn’t that bad”, his patient responds. “It just won’t stop bleeding.” Law almost laughs out loud at that, mentally remembering to check for further signs of shock after he finishes the initial treatment.

“You’re gonna need stitches”, he informs, not waiting for an answer. He turns around to get the necessary equipment from one of the movable cupboards.

“Thought so. What a bother”, he hears the other man say from behind him. Usually, people who make it to Law’s part of the emergency room are ill, have sprained limps or the occasional smaller cut that has scared them so bad they end up at the hospital. Bigger wounds, alcohol poisonings, as well as anything more serious should have been filtered and treated immediately. He slams the last drawer shut and turns around again.

“What’s your name?”, he asks.

“Zoro Roronoa”

“Well, Roronoa-ya, here is what I’m going to do: I’ll give you a slight anesthetic, and then I will sew up your wound. It will probably not hurt anymore as it does now”, he explains. His patient only gives a nod, as if he couldn’t care less. While he gets to work, Law shortly wonders why the other man seems so apathetic to his injury. Normally, the injured people he treated were scared or in shock, babbling nonsense or oversharing. But as he looks up to Roronoa, his expression is calm and unaffected. He doesn’t seem confused, but unnerved.

“So, what happened to your chest?”, he inquires while he injects the anesthetic into his patient’s chest muscle. It was fine chest, Law notices sidetracked. Muscular and well formed, like the other man is working out regularly, real sports, no body building.

“Got mugged.” The answer yanks Law from his thoughts. And doesn’t that make for an interesting answer? Law treats crime victims regularly, but he never met one so calm.

After he cleans the wound, he prepares the needle and sets it against the other man’s skin. “What did they get from you?”

His patient just laughs.

Which is unfortunate, because Law was about to pierce the needle into the edges of his wound, slips and the other man flinches. “Keep still!”, Law reminds him though gritted teeth. “I can’t patch you up like this!”

“Sorry, Doc”, Roronoa replies, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “They only got five bucks and a coffee shop gift card”

Law chuckled. “I see why you find it funny Roronoa-ya”, he answers, finally managing to get the first stich set. He still thinks the other man is weird as hell. A mugging is usually one of the scariest things people encounter in their life and whenever Law meets a victim, they usually tell him all about the incident and demand legal action almost as soon as he sets down the needle. But if he was in the other’s shoes, he’d laugh, too. Crime doesn’t scare him anymore.

“So what kind of doctor are you, anyway?”, his patient asks as Law slowly presses the hurt skin together to make the third stich. “A surgeon”, he answers distractedly. He feels the needle pierce through the thick layers of skin. Pulling the string tightly, he watches as the slash he bows over slowly got smaller. Ever since he decided to become a doctor, Law had wanted to do surgery. There is something fascinating about seeing a body that is normally full of life under him, not dead, yet not awake either. The people where living, but when Law worked he was like a mechanic or an artist, cutting and connecting, exchanging, opening, closing. The contrast is exhilarating. Pretty soon after an operation, the responsible specialists take over again, but Law usually makes time to watch his patients wake up, seeing the bodies who seemed dead come to life again.

Between kids who stuck something up their nose and some pretty disgusting cases of the flu, even something as small as giving someone stiches calms him down enough today to forget how hectic the night had been until now.

“No, I mean what’s with the tattoos?”

The question startles Law. He is used to getting suspicious looks from his patients when they see his hands, but never once had someone dared to complain.

“Personal taste”, he responds.

“You have ‘Death’ written on your fingers. Seems a bit morbid, if you ask me.”

Law looks up from his work to see the other man’s expression. His lips are pressed together, but the rest of his face is relaxed and he has lifted his brows inquiringly. He doesn’t seem all that judgmental.

“I didn’t ask you and got them anyway” As he answers, Law pierces the fifth stitch a bit more forcefully than would have been strictly necessary, earning him a barely audible gasp from his patient. “I was just curios”, the other man tries to appease him. “Seemed unusual, with the saving lives and all that”

“Well, people die, even in hospitals.” Law closes up the last bit of the injury. What has been a clashing gap now only is a ugly, blood smeared line next to the cleanly healed scar on his patient’s chest. “We’re done. Do you feel cold or sweaty?” The other man shakes his head. “This isn’t my first ride on the rodeo”, he answers.

“Sorry to hear that.” Law removes his gloves and makes a point to flex his fingers extra slowly, so Roronoa can get a good look at the letters on his fingers. “You should be good to go. Keep it slow and don’t make any hasty movements with your upper body for the next two weeks. No workouts. The string can be removed in ten days by a doctor of your choice.” Suddenly tired again, he turns around to leave.

As he pulls the curtain aside, he can hear the farewell from his patient. “Thanks, Doc. The ink is cool, though, by the way!”

He turns left and made his way to the nurse station. The clock tells him he still has two hours and thirty minutes to go.

 

_~_

 

Law seriously thinks about quitting.

Frustrated he slams the door of his locker shut, cursing the damned child that vomited all over his coat and scrubs. Past incidents have actually taught him to always have a set of spare clothes at hand, but yesterday some poor bloke coughed blood all over his first outfit, so that all of his clothes were in dire need of disinfectant. He looks down on his soiled top and sighs. There is no way he’s going to wear this one minute longer.

Pulling it off, he hears the door to the changing room open. “Well, aren’t you a lucky one”, teases a rough voice. He looks over his shoulder to see Crocus, one of the internists, stand in the doorway.

“Sick kid”, Law growls and desperately thinks about something to wear. He can wear his home outfit, but would risk a disciplinary for violating hygiene standards. He can also always just get a new lab coat and button it all the way up. If he doesn’t move around too much, no one will be the wiser.

“Ya have some spares?”, Crocus asks, grinning widely as he sees Laws miserable face when the younger doctor shakes his head. “Someone spit blood all over me during the rounds yesterday morning.”

“Holy fuck, how long have you been here, kid?”

Law tries to count the hours. He started his shift at eleven in the morning on Friday, and now it’s Saturday night. “Around thirty-six hours, I guess”, he answers. Hearing it out loud actually makes it worse. He feels his limbs grow even more weary with exhaustion. He just wants to sleep. In his own bed, in his own clothes, far, far away from sick people.

He hears Crocus go walk through the room and opening his own locker. “Lucky for you”, the older man announces, “I always carry a set in case of emergency!” He yanks something pink from one of the locker shelves and throws it roughly in Law’s direction.

“Can’t have you run around naked. We’d have so many more nose bleeds to treat tonight!” He laughs loudly at his own joke and leaves, taking a bite from a candy bar he obviously just obtained. Law sighs again. He swears he is was getting the headache again.

As he looks at the top Crocous has given him, he finds it to be incredibly ugly, even for doctor’s scrubs. It’s in a darker shade of pink than usually, and generally looks as if it is four sizes too big for Law. The cutout in the chest area actually reaches all the way across his chest, so that his tattoo is clearly visible.

Well, beggars can’t be choosers, he thinks to himself, as he takes out another lap coat from the communal laundry board. Feeling uncomfortably exposed, he leaves the changing room and makes his way back to his work station. Who knows what happened there in his absence.

As soon as he comes in the field of vision of the emergency unit, a nurse walks up to him and pushes a paper clipboard into his hand. “Compartment four, has been waiting for two and a half hours. Something about his back. And he looks really scary.” So much information, she must be new then. Normally he just takes whatever the nurses give him, trusting them to have everything written down in case he needs it. He also trusts them to not talk to him. Every second of silence is precious on weekends.

Without a word he turns around and goes to see his next patient, hoping they can at least wretch on the floor. Law pulls the curtain open and is greeted by the sight of a green haired man lying on the cot set up in the corner of the partition. He’s lying on his side, facing away from the entry, snoring softly. Law stops in his tracks. Sure, he encounters a lot of tired and stressed out people in his line of work, but none of them ever fell asleep before treatment even began. They usually are far too worried or nervous to close their eyes. But this man seems far gone, judging by the small trickle of saliva that runs down his chin and onto the paper pad underneath. He’s a grown man, big with bulky muscles and this ridiculous hair color, but lying there he looks almost cute.

For the short part of a second, Law feels almost bad he has to wake him up.

But then he shakes his head and approaches the man. His patient doesn’t seem to hear him as he greets him, just takes one deep breath and lets out an even louder snore. The doctor proceeds to touch his shoulder.

Suddenly the other man snaps up, grabs his hand, turns it around and before the pain of the unnatural motion reaches Law’s brain, he is pinned to the cot, the other man behind him, still twisting his arm. It fucking hurts.

Law only realizes he made sound when the strangled whimper reaches his ears. The sound seems to startle the other man, too.

“Fuck, sorry”, he calls and the pressure on Laws arms immediately disappears. Relieved, the doctor shrugs his shoulders to ease the pain and faces the other.

His patient stands a few steps across from him, looking at him almost sheepishly. His right hand is buried in his hair, the other one hanging uselessly at his side. “I didn’t mean to do that”, he explains. “I’m a bit jumpy.”

Maybe Law should be afraid. But he can’t remember the last time he felt that particular emotion. All he notices nowadays is a strange calm, much like apathy. He stands in the partition and looks at his patient. There is something familiar about his features and Law would have sworn he has seen this hair color somewhere. “You’ve been here before”, he states.

The other man narrows his eyes as he stares back, but only for a second, before his face returns to normal. “Yeah. You gave me stitches the other week.”

A shadow of a memory crosses Law’s mind. The guy who laughed when he sewed his wound. “Cut to the chest.”

His patient nods.

“Well, what is your problem today?” Fear, Rocinante once told him, was a thing for people who have something to lose. Law has no such thing.

“Shouldn’t you be calling security or something?”, the other guy asks, sounding a bit exasperated.

“Why, do you plan on attacking me again?” Instead of answering, the green haired man just shakes his head.

“Then what brings you here?” His patient gestures to his left arm. “Hurts when I move it.” Law moves in to take a look, checking for injuries, questioning the other man about what happened. Apparently, he tried to up his weigh lift limit, pinching a nerve. Nothing as severe as the last time.

“I waited for like, three hours and I was just goddamn tired”, the other man explains a bit later. “Sorry for waking up badly.” The understatement makes Law chuckle. “At least you didn’t vomit on me like the people before”, he remarks dryly.

“That really happens?” The doctor uses his hands to slowly feel for the tension that signals which nerve exactly is affected. Touching the other man so soon after being attacked by him seems kind of strange. He can feel the muscles under the skin, the strength that just minutes ago turned against him. The thought sends a rush up his spine. It feels almost like excitement.

Looks like the tables turned now, anyway, Law thinks to himself as he finds the nerve, presses it slightly and hears the other man groan silently.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

Law might or might not be more thorough than usual as he takes his time to feel the surrounding tissue, looking for the extension of the pain. He also might or might not press a bit harder than the diagnosis demands to elicit a response from his patient. But hearing the taller man gasp every time he digs his fingers in his flesh gives him a little thrill of revenge for the pain the other has inflicted on him earlier.

As Law hears himself think, he realizes he really needs some days off.

He quickly finishes his inspection and takes a step back, trying to not give in to the temptation of losing his composure any further.

“Looks like you just pinched a nerve. Now, I’m not an orthopedist, but I can give you a painkiller that should last for a few days until the issue resolves itself or you can visit a specialist”, he explains, receding a bit further with every word. He grabs the nearest sterile syringe to make it look like he is actually collecting the equipment he needs instead of the retreat it really is.

“As long as I can train again”, the other man responds.

“You shouldn’t train at all if I just recently gave you stitches.” Law turns around, clenching his teeth together. It’s almost over, he just needs to inject the painkiller and then he will be out of here. Going back to his usual routine of treating hypochondriacs and drunk guys who jumped off balconies, and, most importantly: not hurting his patients on purpose. “What was your name again?”, he asks just to kill the time until he finds a suitable puncture site.

“Zoro Roronoa.”

There, he found it. Feels up to the middle of the string of muscle under his patient’s shoulder. Less than a minute until he can leave.

“However, Mister Roronoa, since training got you into this mess, you should go more slowly and give your body a break. It will take some time until the tension wears itself off completely, anyway”, he laments standard phrasing. Then his ordeal is over, the injection is done.

“Too bad. I’m not a ‘taking a break”-kind of guy.” Law looks up and he can tell. Roronoa has a determined look in his eyes. These are his least favorite patients: people who will go on despite knowing better, ignoring friendly advice and medical counselling alike.

“You can do whatever you want, it’s your body that’s going to hurt”, he snaps and at the same moment he wishes he simply ignored the comment. He could be with his next patient by now.

Roronoa chuckles. Law can both hear and feel it, since he forgot to remove his hand and also the syringe from the other man’s body. For a short moment, he is uncomfortably aware of the other man’s subconscious movements. But then he manages to get his grip back and pulls free.

“You’re done”, he says and notices with wonder how empty his voice sounds all of a sudden. “Make sure to not come back here again.” And he means it. Weekend for weekend, Law endures the night shifts in the emergency room. Always calm and stoic on the outside, he never gets complains from his coworkers or patients. They tolerate him, he bears with them and they ignore each other for the rest of the week. It’s a running system.

He doesn’t like the feeling of losing control over it. Over himself. This is his. His job, his operating room, his treatments.

“I’ll try”, Roronoa answers. Law turns around and pulls the curtain back. Before he leaves, he looks back and catches Roronoa’s parting words. “The chest tattoo suits you better. You should have been a cardiologist!”

Confused for a moment, Law looks down on himself. He sees it. Crocus’ too big scrubs shifted in the commotion, laying the big heart tattoo on his chest bare.

Being half naked in front of a patient. Law just had it for the night.

 

_~_

 

It shouldn’t really surprise him, but Roronoa is back the next week.

This time he is awake, sitting on the cot. He grins a smug half grin, looking up at Law and through his teeth says: “Sorry, Doc.”

Law sighs. “So what’s it this time?”

Nonchalantly, Roronoa lifts up his shirt, revealing ripped abs that are covered in bruises that range from blue to violet to almost black. “Friend told me I should go get it checked out.”

“He was right”, Law responds, sits down on the doctor’s chair and begins to inspect the bruises. “So what did you do this time?”

He guides his fingers over the skin. Under his light touch, he can feel the other’s abdomen move, the muscles pressing slightly against his hand with every breath. If it wasn’t Roronoa, he would admire it a bit longer. When he reaches the darker bruises, he feels his patient tense. “Got into a bar fight”, Roronoa says. “You should see the other guy!” Law can practically hear the gloating grin in his voice. For a moment, he remembers the burst of aggression he felt last week. The adrenaline that set him on edge.

Seems like his patient is a violent one.

The thought brings the thrill back, that smug feeling of being hurt and hurting in return.

This has to stop. He sits up abruptly.

“Well, I hope he also ended up in a hospital. I have to do an ultrasound.” He reaches next to him, to pull the cupboard which stores the machine closer. “You have to lie down.” He rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath. There is something about Roronoa that brings back memories of old feelings. Cold anger and the pleasure of hitting his mark. The almost sexual act of fighting.

It’s been such a long time and he thought he had forgotten.

But something about their encounter last week brought it back to life, and he feels it hum under his skin as if it was always there, just waiting for the right moment.

He tried to close it away. This is not the time or the place to elicit a fight or flight response, he is here to work, to bring people back to health. He wanted to be a doctor since he was a kid and he sure as hell isn’t compromising that for some imaginary power struggle in an emergency compartment on a weekend night.

His fingers a steady as he prepares the procedure and he watches his patient follow his instructions. As he pulls out the bottle of medicinal lube, the other man raises a hand and stops him.

“Hey, Doc, what’s your name?”, Roronoa asks.

“It’s Law. Might feel a little cold now.” Law gives the bottle a good squeeze and then switches to the probe. “Well, always good to know the people who lube you up”, his patient mumbles and takes a deep breath. “Why are you doing this again?”

“To check for internal injuries”, Law replies, determined to keep his interaction with the other to a bare minimum.

“Is that really necessary? Doesn’t feel too bad”

“Your stomach actually holds several organs you really want to be working”, Law informs him crudely, trying to get a good look at the tissue on the black and white screen.

“Gee, smartass, I wouldn’t have thought!”

Before he can control himself, Law presses the probe down a bit harder and feels the swallow of the other. “That’s mean, Doc”, Roronoa complains.

“It’s Law.” His voice sounds absent because he is mentally cursing himself for slipping up again.

“Maybe you should work in a court instead.”

This may legitimately the worst pun Law has ever heard. “But who would stich you up when you get in drunken fights, then?”, he asks in return. So much for not talking to the guy.

The ultrasound looks normal, which, seeing the bruises on his patient’s skin, seems to be a small miracle by himself.

“I’m never drunk”, Roronoa rectifies. “A good fighter never lowers his guard.”

Law heard that one before, when he was a kid. Over and over, until the sentence was ingrained into his skull like the tattoos on his arm. _A good fighter never lowers his guard. Keep your sword up, keep your face empty. Always be prepared and vigilant._ “Seems your guard was lacking today.”

“Worth it.”

Law doubts it ever is.

He finishes his examination. “Everything seems to be in order. But if something seems unusual to you, you should visit a doctor to make sure there are no complications later on.” He grabs for paper towels and begins to clean the other man up. The gesture feels strangely intimate, though it could just have been the bad sexual joke Roronoa made in the beginning. And briefly, just briefly, Law wonders how it could be to touch the man in another way. Without the neon lights and the machines. Just two people, skin on skin.

He shakes his head. Seems to be his guard that’s lacking today. The realization feels heavy in his head, because _never let them know, it’s over when they see it, it’s over when you lose control._

“You should really be more careful”, he adds, “or we’ll be seeing each other in surgery.”

Roronoa sits up and looks at him. For some reason, he is still grinning, it’s like he never stopped. There it is again, the feeling of aggression and violence the man seems to emit.

“But”, he says, his voice low and deep, “where is the fun in that?”

Law flees.

 

_~_

 

“Are there any other doctors working here besides you?”, Roronoa asks as Law draws the curtain back.

And wouldn’t that be great. His last encounter with the other man hasn’t left him all week. The mixture of attraction and anger is still fresh in his head, and it seemed to lull him in, into the dangerous cold that cuts deep and sets his skin on fire. He hasn’t felt this way since he left the Doflamingo family, since he stashed away his sword with the silent vow to never touch it again. The pull of it sharpened his senses and let him see the world crystal clear, as if he regained focus he didn’t know he’d lost.

Law made every effort to leave it behind.

He rented an apartment. Took a run every morning before work, said the necessary things, distracted himself with being always up to date to the news, the newest medical procedures. He knows the most important studies, every technique that is in trial. He spends more time in surgery than any other doctor of his department.

He always complained about his weekend shifts, but he asked for them specifically. Working himself into complete exhaustion because it’s the only time he can sleep dreamlessly.

But the violence was always there. It slept under the surface for years and now he can feel it buzzing in his head, whispering seductively. It urges him to touch the other man again, to feel the beat of his pulse against his skin, to press his hands around his throat and squeeze until it flutters. He longs for the struggle of a fight.

Then again, he craves touch. Hands on his arms, unsure whether to push or to pull, breath against his cheek, looking down and seeing another’s face, the victory of seeing someone falling apart under him.

Sometimes he thinks that this is the worst Doflamingo did to him. To nourish the flame of rage in him until it froze, until every fiber of his being was filled with violence, until it took over him completely.

He desperately wants to go back to feeling nothing at all.

When he looks at Roronoa now, he can feel the tingle in his fingers and the shiver in his spine.

“There’s a shortage of skilled labor”, he remarks dryly and enters. “So what can I help you with today?”

Instead of answering his patient holds up his arms. They are covered in little cuts, and as Law leans closer he can see little splinters of glass glistening in the bright light. “Well, this is going to take a while.”

“Figured”, the other replies.

Law sighs and sits down. As he did the other times before, he gathers his tools and gets to work.

Silence stretches between them as he pulls on his gloves and begins to pull out the shards with tweezers. It’s not uncomfortable, but Law feels Roronoa’s presence almost painfully. As the steadies the arm he’s working on, he is aware of every inch where their bodies touch. It’s almost too much, his head is roaring with thoughts, feelings and memories, threatening to drown out his senses. He can’t remember the last time he had so little control over his emotions.

“So, is this another bar fight?”, he asks to distract himself, hoping a conversation will anchor him in reality.

“Something like that.”

“Is it a secret then?” The other man shrugs and Law almost rams a glass shard in his arm. “Watch it!”, he reminds him.

“Just for police officers and doctors.” That doesn’t sound ominous at all. Roronoa is guarded and he wishes he would talk more to keep his mind from wandering. He remembers the earlier images of arms around him and asks himself how it would feel if they were these ones, gripping tightly.

“You keep showing up here.” Law is glad that he can trust his fingers, which repeat the same motions over and over. Feeling for the resistance of the glass, pulling, removing. That his body works without his cooperation reassures him. Like there is a part of him that stays the same, that he can rely on. No matter what, it doesn’t go away.

And it’s only his.

“Comes with the job”, Roronoa replies.

“And what kind of job is that?” Another splinter is gone, then another. Blood taints the transparent material. It looks incredibly ugly in the light of the floor lamp.

“I do martial arts. Sword fighting mostly.” The words startle Law. It adds to the image he came up with in the past week. The other man seemed unnaturally calm the first times Law saw him. He’s seen him act normal while being in pain that would have made better men cry. It fits perfectly into the aura of aggression. He would bet Roronoa fights for money. Or as a hitman. It would make sense. Regular competitions have a fixed end, they are not meant to really hurt the fighters. But there are clubs where everything goes, there are fights outside that end only in death.

Law knows, he fought them.

He wants to steer away from the topic, not wanting to remember anything else from his past today, or maybe ever, but instead he hears himself say: “Used to do that myself.”

It earns him a surprised huff.

“Really? What style?” He shouldn’t say, he shouldn’t. It tells to much about where he comes from, what he wanted to use it for. Law never trained for the beauty of it, but for effectiveness.

He tells him.

Presses the tweezers together, removes another splinter.

“Never thought you looked the type”, Roronoa says after a moment of silence. “Guess the tattoos make more sense now.”

Law knows most gang members have them. But he didn’t get inked because he fought in the clubs or as a sign of belonging. He got his tattoos only after he started med school, because if there was something he wanted to never forget, it was that his hands brought mostly death, no matter how many lives he saved. That he cut out more hearts than he repaired.

“Thanks, it’s the night shifts. They ruin the look”, he answers lamely. “And the idiots who make me pull glass out of them for half an hour at two in the morning.”

“You want a fight, Doc?”

He can hear the other man smiling. It sounds enticing, fitting directly into Law’s daydreams. “You’re beat up enough as it is. Care to reopen the cut I just stitched? Because there is an easier way, I have scalpels right here.” It has been three weeks since he sewed the cut shut, there is no way it has healed completely until now.

“And now you’re threatening me. I’m pretty sure doctors are not supposed to do that.”

“Well, patients are not supposed to be steady customers in an emergency room.” One arm is done. The other looks less damaged.

“You got me there. I got distracted tonight.”

“Well, a good swordsman never lets his guard down.” For a moment he thinks he teased too much, but then Roronoa laughs and makes Law almost slip again. His job is a lot easier when people are unconscious.

He grips the other man’s arm tighter. The fracture of a fantasy passes before his eyes, of pulling the other closer, much closer. But then he feels the next shard sit in the man’s flesh and the thought is gone.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Got any more medical advice?”

“Don’t get beaten up.”

“That’s what my insurance pays you for?”

Law almost, almost smiles. The banter feels normal, like this was just another conversation. He doesn’t have them often, just talking carelessly with someone, jokingly even. It makes his confused mind easier to bear. “They pay me to clean your wounds. The advice is free.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re very welcome.”

With that, Law removes the last shard from Roronoa’s arm. “All gone.”

The wounds need to be disinfected and bandaged. He could have a nurse do the cleaning and bandaging, but for some reason he doesn’t want to. As he thinks about it, he feels like a child that didn’t get the treat it was promised. Not willing to examine the feeling, Law pushes away the floor lamp.

He always thought there was beauty in destruction. In chaos and in injury. Looking down an Roronoa’s arm as he swipes it down with a cotton wipe, he sees the red cuts stand out against his skin, the random pattern of slices that accentuate every healthy inch. When he rolls down the bandage, he wonders what it would be like to just touch the other man. Without cause, just because he wants to.

He doesn’t do it. Bad enough that he thinks this way about a patient who probably just wants to get treated without being asked any questions, he doesn’t need to set himself up for sexual harassment because he remembered his teenage years.

But still, when he staples the bandage closed, his hand lingers just a bit longer than it has to, feeling the rough material and Roronoa’s body underneath.

“Stay away this time!”, Law instructs.

He let his fingers rest on Roronoa for another short moment, just a second. Law swears himself that this is all he will ever allow himself.

 

_~_

 

Law can’t help but wonder if he is going to see Roronoa again today.

The emergency room is stuffed. As he returns from the bathroom, he can see people sitting and standing in the waiting area, tired and worn out. Some are visibly injured; some seem to be sick. Children cry.

It’s the same thing every night, every week. Sometimes he thinks it will never end. And it probably won’t, because the human body is faulty, full of mistakes and things that don’t add up. It exhausts him to even think of it.

He hurries along the corridor, back to the treatment room. Here, it’s just a compartment, one person for every two square meters. All week, Law was hoping he would never meet Roronoa again in his life and wishing he could see him one more time all the same. Then he would be prepared, concentrated, in control. The pull of the other man is hard to resist and his memories call to him, whispering about all the things he forgot since he left his past behind.

How the world gets brighter for just a few minutes, every sense heightened. How he felt like he could do everything, like nothing in the world could ever harm him and everything that did is far away.

The glory of bending bodies to his will.

Early in the morning, when Law pretends to himself he is still asleep, he asks himself how Roronoa’s body would arch under his grip. The sharp edges of his body rising up in one fluent motion over him. Or his arms stretched out over his head, not being able to move but still taunting Law with the same grin as the night he attacked him.

Then he hears his alarm go off, his daydreams vanishing into thin air.

Now it’s Saturday again and Law doesn’t know what to think or feel anymore. So he just carries on. After sending a patient to get his appendix checked out and another one to go home with a bandages for a sprained ankle, he prescribes antibiotics to someone with a nasty eye infection. The work dulls his mind as it usually does. The motions are rehearsed and never change, just as the people he treats never do.

He leaves a compartment, swaps out records with the nurse, starts at the left side of the room again, working his way down to the right.

Really bad migraine, a broken arm, someone who supposedly spent all day in a solarium. The list goes on and on. He gets up, pulls the curtain back, exits, pulls a new one open. He doesn’t really have to think anymore and if he is honest with himself, he likes it that way. That’s why he wanted the night shifts in the first place.

He gets another record, enters and the laziness settling in his brain is promptly gone.

Roronoa’s back again.

Of course he is. Why did Law ever doubt that? It’s like these nights have become some kind of weird ritual. This time he sits on the doctor’s chair, rolling back and forth lethargically. He wears green trousers, which seem to be almost black with blood at the thighs. He still looks composed, his back is straight. He meets Law’s eyes with something that, for a short moment, feels like defiance. In the back of his head, Law asks himself how it would be to feel the real thing, to see the other put up a struggle against his own wishes and fight for the upper hand.

He takes a few steps into the partition, hoping that the tension he feels isn’t visible in his face. “Don’t you have enough?”

“I’m getting kinda attached to this place”, Roronoa answers, still looking up at him.

Law takes a seat on the cot that’s normally reserved for patients. “You should be more attached to your limbs.”

“Last I checked I had them all.”

The other man is still not looking away, the eye contact feels almost painful to Law. But he doesn’t want to break away, doesn’t want to blink. To lose. “Well, at this rate, I’ll be taking off your arms around the same time next month, Roronoa-ya.”

And the other man just laughs. “Never gonna happen. I’m too good at what I do.”

“And too arrogant to notice you’re bleeding over my chair.” His patient is the first to look away as his gaze drops to the stain on his thigh. “So you’ll stitch me up, Doc?”

“You have to remove your pants first.” He immediately wishes he hadn’t said that.

Law has seen it all. He has seen people hurt, has seen them from inside. He cut open their bodies and mended their wounds. In a way they are all the same. But still, the thought of Roronoa’s naked legs in front of him feels intimate. He knows it’s just in his imagination, that it’s just another treatment for the other man. The feeling stays all the same as the other gets up und pulls his clothing down to his knees, revealing thickly muscled thighs. Unable to say anything, Law just gestures in the direction of the cot.

The cut is not deep, but deep enough to have given a hell of a bleeding. Something about it looks odd, but he can’t put his finger on it and it doesn’t interfere with his therapy, so Law pushes the thought aside as he prepares the needle. Like that last time his fingers are steady as he goes to work, but his mind is in turmoil. A part of it screams for him to let his hand rest on the flesh beside the wound, to seek contact under the pretense to get a better angle. Another wants to get up and leave, to tell his patient he’ll get another doctor over and then don’t come back. And a smaller one tells him he could go on like this forever, repairing what is broken, savoring the carelessness and danger of the other man as his own in these few stolen seconds.

He watches closely every time the skin breaks, this time not to hurt but to heal. The morbidity always fascinated him. Making it worse to make it better. It’s like a spell.

Somewhere, outside of the curtain walls, someone cries. Laws fingers still move, always performing the same set of moves.

“So you always do the weekends then?”, Roronoa asks.

Law nods his head yes.

“Why?” “I’ve got no family, it’s the obvious choice.” It’s only half of the truth. It’s two more stitches and Law doesn’t know if he should be happy or disappointed. He looks down at the cut, thinking of the scars Roronoa bears on his chest. A long one, ranging from his shoulders almost down to his hips and the smaller one Law sewed shut a month ago. This, too, will leave a scar, another memory of a fight, maybe one of his treatment to follow.

He wonders if the other man will remember him. Law certainly remembers, playing the past few weekends round and round in his head, thinking of bones and parts and muscles. Of looking and touching, sometimes tasting.

“But isn’t it stressful? It’s like hell out there.” Law looks up just in time to see Roronoa jerk his head in the direction of the waiting room. “Maybe”, Law answers, “but as you put it a few weeks ago, I’m ‘saving lives and all that.’”

The other man laughs. Law stops his sewing as he notices the tremble in his arms. “Well played, Law.”

Despite his insistence a few weeks ago, this is the first time Roronoa actually called his name. He likes the way it sounds in his voice, deep, a brutal and short sound, a bit like he feels when the other is around. He wishes he could hear it more often.

He doesn’t know how to respond, so he focuses his attention on the last stitch, seeing the drops of blood, the red and brown around the edges of the cut, the slight curve at the beginning, right under the hips-

He goes still with the realization. The angle of the wound didn’t look natural. Law has seen other people get cut by knives, daggers and swords dozens of times. He inflicted them on other people and he knows by heart that if he stabbed or slashed someone, his instinct is to move his weapon to the side or down, to use his strength in the most effective way. A skilled fighter doesn’t waver, they hit straight on or miss, but they never slur the cut. If there is a curve at the beginning, that means the blade was moved from down up. So either the situation was really desperate, or it is self-inflicted.

But if it was desperation that brought on the different angle, there would have been much more force, cutting through muscle instead of just hurting the thin layer of fat above.

“You didn’t fight tonight.” He realizes that he’s speaking only when he hears the sound of his own voice. His hands move automatically, while his mind is trying to bring together the different pieces of information. Disinfect again, grabbing a bandage. He dealt with self-harmers before but Roronoa just doesn’t seem to be the type. He is aggressive, yes, but Law wouldn’t have taken him for someone who gets something out of his own pain. He keeps on working as he thinks about the other injuries. A pulled nerve is hard to accomplish deliberately. And while it is possible that the cuts with the glass shards were the result of a conscious decision, the pattern would tell otherwise. Roronoa would have had his arms in an entirely unnatural angle to hurt himself like that.

He can’t be sure about the first scar, though.“Why did you do this?” He closes up the bandage and sits back, looking Roronoa straight in the face.

The other man seems calm, but Law can see his adams apple moving as he swallows thickly.

It’s quiet for a few seconds as Roronoa meets his gaze, none of them backing up.

In the end it’s the other who breaks it.

“Like I said, I kinda got attached.”

Suddenly Law can’t sit still anymore. He gets up and paces as much as the room allows, three small steps to the right and two to the left. He wishes he had more space.

“Attached to what?”, he demands to know. He turns to look at Roronoa again, who still looks at him, his face unreadable. Needing to move, to do something, Law removes the gloves on his hand and tosses them into the direction of the bin.

“I wanted to see you again.”

For a second, he isn’t sure if he heard it right. He just stares, but the other man doesn’t move, doesn’t lower his eyes. He just keeps them focused on Law as the seconds stretch on. Law thinks of every morning he woke up catching himself dreaming about Roronoa. He thinks of the thrill of inflicting even the smallest amount of pain to the other. He thinks how he wished, just minutes before, that he could just stay like this and fix him until the other one was whole again. How it would feel to lay his hands on him.

“And why is that?”, he inquires eventually. Roronoa only shrugs. “I just wanted to.”

And that does it. With two steps Law is in front of the other man again. He feels himself moving, but he can’t say why until his back bows. He catches a hint of surprise in the other man’s eyes, but it passes quickly, because then his lips meet others and they are kissing.

Roronoa’s lips are hot and stiff under his own. They are sprained and salty from sweat and for a moment Law curses himself because he let got and this went too far and _how does he get out of here now?_

Then the other opens his mouth and returns his kiss.

It is as if he wants to devour Law. Within the split of a second he sits up, coming up to meet him and urging him back at the same time. His lips are parted widely, as if he wants to swallow him up and he wastes no time to slide his tongue into Law’s mouth.

All of the longing and confusion of the last few weeks accumulate to the point where their tongues meet. It’s almost brutal, like a clash and it shakes Law down to his core. He brings up his hands to steady himself against the other man, trying to gain ground again. Roronoa tangles his fingers in his hair and pulls him tighter, until he feels there’s no more space between their faces. Heat curls in his stomach and he feels the familiar tingle at the back of his neck, the adrenaline rush through his body. He holds on tight, not wanting to believe what happens. Maybe this is just another daydream and he will be fully awake any second now. But then, Roronoa bites his lip, and the sharp pain convinces him that this is real and happening. He retaliates, pulling the other man’s hair and feeling his gasp in his mouth. Their teeth scrape together as the kiss gets desperate. Law feels Roronoa’s fingernails digging into his skull. His head is light, almost dizzy from the lack of air and the high their fight for dominance gives him. He scrapes his teeth over the other man’s lips, out of breath and finally ready to let go, but Roronoa pulls him in again, not wanting to let him get the upper hand.

With a determined drag of his fingers Law jerks his head back.

They look at each other. Seconds that feel like eternity pass between them.

Finally, Roronoa winds out of the closeness and Law takes a step back. Neither of them speak. Law just watches as Roronoa gets up from the cot he was sitting on the whole time and pull his trousers up. He stays still for a second, looking at Law and then turns to go, grabbing the curtain of the compartment.

Just as Law thinks that this was it, that the other one will just vanish out of his life as suddenly as he came, Roronoa turns around once more. He seizes something from his pockets and holds it out to Law. It’s a small piece of paper, a business card with big black letters on it. Automatically, Law holds out his hand and takes it, feeling the smooth surface of the paper glide between his fingers.

“I’m always in the same spot. You should come by sometime”, Roronoa says.

And then he is gone.

For several long moments, Law continues to just stand there, staring into the space where the other was just seconds ago, seeing him pass through the room and exit the emergency center.

Then, his gaze drops down to the card.

The name on it reads ‘The New World’.

Law feels a grin spread over his face, a grin like he hasn’t felt for years, because it really is a smirk. He can feel his teeth bare and his shoulders straighten. Blood pumps hard and fast through his veins, setting a sweet and glorious rhythm. Everything finally is in the right place, whatever weighted him down at the beginning of the night has fallen off him completely.

Even though this wasn’t a fight, he still feels victorious.

And he really deserves a free weekend.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to, check out my tumblr zorotrash.
> 
> The title is from "Marked for Death" by Emma Ruth Rundle.


End file.
